


i ain't no hercules

by grinsekaetzchen



Series: a universe created by ourselves [3]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kid Fic, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, kind of at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 05:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15479064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grinsekaetzchen/pseuds/grinsekaetzchen
Summary: Sometimes Isak thinks it would be easier if he could tell himself a story. A story of how the world came to an untimely end, of how it burned to the ground and how the few survivors stared on in horror, illuminated by the flames. A story of those survivors going on to save others in spite of everything. And later, when they were successful in repopulating the Earth, they would be called heroes. There would be celebrations in their honour. There would be people alive because of them.The problem is: Isak may be one of the survivors, but he’s definitely not one of the heroes.[Part 2 of the Post-Apocalypse AU "if you must live, darling one, just live"]





	i ain't no hercules

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, I think nearly ten months ago, I posted on my tumblr that I was writing a second part for the apocalypse AU and then never posted it (because of multiple reasons, all of them not interesting). As I'm going through all the stuff on my hard drive and figuring out if there is something I can post, I found it again and here it is now! So, I'm not back in the fandom but I didn't want to sit on this for longer.
> 
> Technically, I guess you could read this as a standalone, but it works much, much better if you’ve read the previous part in the series. The same warnings apply: off-screen deaths of secondary characters (no new ones from the first one, don’t worry), discussion of nightmares and references to panic attacks (though those are never called that). But no animal deaths this time if that helps?? 
> 
> Thank you so much to [Sarah](http://canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com/) and [Lyds](http://boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com/), who read this and told me to post it and helped me work out the kinks in this! Ily all!! Title is from “Charon” by Keaton Henson.

Sometimes Isak thinks it would be easier if he could tell himself a story. A story of how the world came to an untimely end, of how it burned to the ground and how the few survivors stared on in horror, illuminated by the flames. A story of those survivors going on to save others in spite of everything. And later, when they were successful in repopulating the Earth, they would be called heroes. There would be celebrations in their honour. There would be people alive because of them.

The problem is: Isak may be one of the survivors, but he’s definitely not one of the heroes. Not like Even, who’s the hero of his own film, who’s telling a story so intricate that sometimes Isak wonders if he truly has a place in there as more than an extra.

The problem is: Surviving is hard enough on its own, how would Isak go about saving lives? He can barely keep himself alive and the people in this village (and the animals – all the animals, even Hope, who remains the most stubborn and horrible goat that Isak has ever met).

The problem is: The last time Isak was told a story, he was a child sitting in bed and listening with rapt attention as his mother read to him. His mother liked to make up the words in the book, not bound by the letters on the pages, instead inventing a more fantastical story night after night. And when Isak asked if the stories were real, she just looked at him and smiled softly, “Of course they are, they’re my stories.” Isak believed her until her stories first took over her life, then his dad’s and in the end his own.

So, no stories. No make-believe. Isak has dealt in facts for longer than he can remember; it’s etched into his genes at this point (it’s not – that’s a story).

Isak searches for logical conclusions, following the path all the way to the end; looking at a formula and figuring out its variables, reaching the sum symbol and getting a solution; asking why and receiving an answer.

If he asks why now, there is no one to answer him. Their little village keeps quiet, slinks away into the shadows when he wants it to answer him.

Isak has stopped asking.

 

Isak is watching Kitten play with something invisible, her tail flicking back and forth, her ears perked up and her legs crouched close to the ground. Sometimes, one of her paws reaches out, lightning-quick, and bats at the grass. That’s when Even says, “I wanted to be a poet when I grew up.”

Isak turns his head towards Even, watching him instead. He’s leaning against the back of their cabin, in the shade, occasionally squinting against the sunlight. “You didn’t,” Isak says confidently.

There’s no way that Even wanted to be a poet. It’s plain to see in the way he’s combing his hair back too often, in the way he’s licking his lips as if lost in thought, in the way he’s grinning at Isak.

“I didn’t,” Even confirms.

“I was right. I get a kiss,” Isak tells him, not moving from his place in the direct sunlight. It’s a game they’ve started at some point: Tell a lie, see if the other can spot it. The truth gets boring sometimes, too heavy to carry around with you all the time. It’s a little like its own science. Isak thinks he could be a scientist specialising in Even. He doesn’t say that – instead he thinks it loudly at Even, who is smiling.

“Come here, then,” Even says.

Isak grins. “Nope. I’m not moving, I’m already sweating too much, I’m not doing any physical exercise on top of it.”

“I’m literally two metres away from you. It’s not as if that will kill you.”

“Can’t, sorry. Kitten would miss me too much if I left her here.”

Even looks at Kitten and Isak follows his gaze. She is still fighting against invisible monsters and if Isak were good at telling stories, he’d make it into a metaphor about how they all are. He’s not, though, so he just watches the way she is rolling around on her back, stretching towards something he can’t see, moving onto her feet again quickly and hissing.

“Yes, it really seems like she couldn’t live without you,” Even deadpans. He’s already in the middle of getting up. Isak shoots him a huge smile, leaning up on his elbows so that Even can reach him better.

Even’s lips are slightly chapped (his body doesn’t like the heat, hasn’t adapted to it, is in constant rebellion against the sun) as they brush Isak’s and Isak’s nose bumps into Even’s. Isak giggles into the kiss, feeling settled for a second. It’s a heady feeling, strange and fleeting, but it’s there and that’s all that counts is what he tells himself.

“You promised Vilde that you’d take a look at the fence that Hope broke,” Even whispers against Isak’s lips, breaking the kiss.

Isak groans loudly. “I hate you.”

“No,” Even says.

This time, Isak knows that this is a fact, not a lie.

 

It’s two days later when Isak stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the street on which all the cabins line up, like a perfect little suburb. He’d like to say that he sees everything at once but that’s impossible. Human beings are not made to take in everything, they have selective perception and Isak is no exception to that. He knows that.

So, the first thing he sees is Kitten coming towards him from the other end of the village. That in itself is nothing new or exciting, but then she looks at something behind her and Isak spots the little boy traipsing after her.

“Oh my god,” someone yells next to him and it sounds a lot like Eva. Isak can’t tear his gaze away from the boy. “There’s a child. There’s a fucking child!”

Isak is dimly aware of people walking and running towards the little boy. Isak tries cataloguing him to get rid of the white noise in his ears: brown curls hanging into his eyes, dirty clothes, tiny sneakers and stumbling after Kitten. He seems tired.

“Isak?” someone says and Isak doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Even.

Isak wants to say that he needs air but that’s non-sensical. He’s outside, there’s enough air here, too much really, it just can’t make its way into his lungs all of a sudden. It’s so stupid, he’s being stupid.

“Let’s leave?” he suggests hoarsely once his mouth has gathered enough spit to form sounds again. It comes out sounding like a question (a plea, maybe; but Isak doesn’t do those).

“Sure,” Even says, a little confused. Isak catches him looking at the child as they leave but he comes with Isak. The child has a ring of people standing around him. Kitten is sitting apart from them, licking her front paw and shooting a look at Isak as if to say, “Go, I’ve got this.”

Isak preferred it when she brought him dead birds.

 

They walk in silence, through the village, away from the child and the others, taking the long way to end up in the forest.

“It seems like it’s been ages since I found you here,” Isak says into the quiet. The trees are still around them, no breeze to rustle the leaves. It’s those things that Isak misses the most, he thinks. Then, he’s reminded of everything else and the absence of a breeze on days like these seems like a tiny thing in comparison.

“Yeah,” Even agrees.

The walk through the woods feels a lot like those first weeks with Even. Then, silence seemed to follow them everywhere, unbearable and stifling. Isak tried to fill it with babbling sometimes because it made Even’s hollow gaze follow him around, tracking his every move. It should have probably unnerved Isak, but instead it felt weirdly good to have someone looking at him again. Looking out for him, maybe.

Isak’s heart is beating too fast in his chest, racing and making his palms sweat (a normal response to fear and anxiety, to stress, his brain supplies helpfully, the body producing adrenaline because it’s ready to flee or fight, but Isak just wants it to _stop_ ; there’s nowhere to flee to, no one to fight, this is useless). He forces his thoughts away from the little boy and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Did I ever tell you what I called you in my head when I didn’t know your name yet?”

Even startles next to him, nearly stumbling over a branch on the ground. Isak catches his elbow. It’s become some sort of an inside joke between the two them by now: The fact that Even is so bad at adapting to living here. It might be a bit sad, but it makes Even laugh, so whatever.

“No. What did you call me?”

“Tall Tragic Stranger.” Isak sees the confusion that washes over Even’s face, closely followed by a slow smile spreading over his lips. It will never get tiring to see Even smile. Isak’s heart is slightly calmed by that.

“Tall Tragic Stranger?”

“Of course, it makes perfect sense. You’re stupidly tall-“

“You’re only like, a couple of centimetres shorter.”

“- you were a stranger, and you looked so, so tragic.” Isak ticks the points off on his fingers until Even puts both of his hands over them and steps in front of Isak, halting their walk. Isak looks at their clasped hands between them and can barely hear his own heart beating too fast anymore.

(Fact: Isak doesn’t ever want to let go of Even’s hands.)

“I didn’t look tragic.” Even frowns a little. It’s cute.

“You did, but it’s okay. It gave you a very mysterious vibe.”

Even smiles at him, slightly less bright now. “I didn’t feel very mysterious.”

Of course not. Isak could see the sadness and loneliness radiating off of Even from hundreds of metres away. The way he curled into himself, shoulders hunched and defeated. “I know.” He shoots Even a tiny smile and Even exhales quietly.

Isak’s become good at reading Even’s silences, at knowing when to talk over them to make something break through them, and when to just sit with him and not interrupt him. This silence, though, just means quiet understanding. Later, when there are universities again and a life that consists of more than just survival, Isak will go into behavioural biology and make studying Even a proper science.

(Fact: It is highly unlikely that later will come.

Fact: Isak still hopes for it.

Fact: Isak knows that he will be disappointed.)

“You’ll never be mysterious for me anyway,” Isak whispers, “I’ve seen you play with Kitten, that takes away all of the mysteriousness that you probably never had in the first place.”

Even’s eyes crinkle and his lips twitch. Isak presses a featherlight kiss onto them. It’s quiet and for now, that’s enough.

 

Isak manages to avoid the child for three days and he silently congratulates himself. The congratulation sounds a lot like _Good job, you dick_ , but he can live with the voice inside his head saying that.

His luck runs out on the third day. He’s carrying a bucket of water to their cabin, when he sees Vilde standing behind the little boy and Jonas kneeling in front of him, looking up at him and saying something. The boy nods. Isak just so manages to keep himself from losing his grip on the bucket.

Then, he hears Jonas ask, “So, what’s your name then?”

Isak carefully and slowly puts the water bucket down, turns around and leaves. He’s aware that this is not a good response, but then again, it’s not like he can ever truly leave this godforsaken village, so why bother. His hands are trembling and curling them into fists doesn’t stop them from shaking and he hates every single bit about this. He’s been doing fine. The nightmares only come once a week now, he’s joking around with the others, he has someone to share his bed with and if he hasn’t been doing fine, he’s at least been doing _better_.

This is the part Isak hates the most. The part where anger sneaks up on him, gripping him tightly and refusing to let go until Isak’s given into feeling it in his whole body. He tries to keep it in his hands, to force it to leave his body through his fingertips.

The anger’s good at adapting, though. It doesn’t listen to Isak’s silent mumblings about how this is fine, how he can deal with this, how this is just a little shake up in his usual routine and how this will all turn out okay. Instead, it swallows the meaningless sentences and leaves a trail of horror in its wake. It whispers, _You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to live in a world like this. You were going to be a scientist. You were going to be great. You won’t be. Your world is dying, your family is dead, your friends are dead. No one is ever going to know what being normal feels like – not that you would have ever known that, but just imagine, you spent so much time worrying about being gay and now the world has ended. You must feel so stupid. You_ should _feel so stupid. This is not fair._

Even finds him with his hands submerged in the water of the stream, running them over the moss-covered stones. Isak sees Even sit down on a log out of the corner of his eye.

Isak looks at the water. There are two tiny fish playing hide and seek around his knuckles. He swallows once and says, “I can’t deal with the child.” It’s as close to the truth as he can get himself to say.

“Why?” Even’s voice carries over to him, gentle and without any judgment.

“I’m not sure.” It’s not a lie, but Isak doesn’t know how to put into words yet. He might have a working hypothesis but he can’t bring himself to look at it more closely.

Even doesn’t say anything for a beat too long. Isak looks up, catching his gaze. It’s contemplative. Isak has a horrible thought. “I’m not, like – I’m not keeping you away from the child, though. You know that, right? Like, you can go and visit him or play with him or whatever, just –“ he breathes out, looking at the water again. “I can’t.”

Isak hears Even’s steps coming closer and then his hands join Isak’s underwater. The fish are scared away for a moment before realising they can twist themselves around two pair of hands now.

“I know that, Isak,” Even says.

“Good.” Isak blows onto the water. Small circles appear on its surface and disappear again. Isak feels hollow and filled to the brink at the same time. He’s not quite sure how that can be. 

He is reminded of the thing Jonas asked. If the boy had a name. Isak curls his hands over one of the stones. His chest constricts painfully, robbing him of air and making his throat close up.

“Does the boy have a name?” Isak asks, the words breaking out of his mouth painfully. It feels like they’re tearing something inside of him apart. He feels frantic about it because - Isak can’t name a child. He can give strangers impromptu, secret nicknames until he knows their real names and he can call cats by stupid names and he will endure goats with two extremely idiotic names, but he will not name a fucking child. There is no way that he’s taking on that responsibility but what if they ask him, what if they ask him because somehow, it’s him who’s obsessed with having something to call people by, what if they ask and Isak will have to say no, will have to look at the boy and -

“Of course he has a name,” Even interrupts his spiralling thoughts.

“He hasn’t, I don’t know, forgotten it? Isn’t he like, five and probably traumatised for all of eternity and maybe he doesn’t remember his name? Trauma does weird things to people, okay, and we can’t name a child, we can’t – someone gave him a name already and I can’t just give him a new one.” Isak’s hands are shaking so badly, he can feel the tremors rock his body minutely.

“Jakob. He’s called Jakob.”

Even’s pinkie finger locks itself around Isak’s.

“Okay,” Isak breathes out. “Okay.”

 

“Normal people have the same nightmare every night, not brand-new ones each time,” Jonas says from the floor of his cabin while Isak is lying on his bed. “Do you wanna feel special by having new ones each time?”

“You’re an asshole,” Isak says without feeling. He twists the tiny branch between his fingers. “Also, your pretend joint is not working.”

“It’s a pretend joint, Isak, you need to believe in it.”

“Fuck that. I want the real thing.”

“Obviously you don’t need that, you just told me that you have new nightmares every week and you admitted that without having a proper joint.” Jonas is waving his own tree stick around wildly.

“I didn’t. You asked me if I had nightmares, I said, yeah, but that they change a lot and then we somehow got here.”

“Whatever. I think I’m getting into the pretend weed, you know.”

Isak snorts. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

“You know what I miss?” Jonas asks.

“Weed?”

“Apart from weed, idiot.”

“What?” Isak robs toward the end of the bed to be able to look at Jonas. He hopes that they’re not suddenly having an emotional moment. It’s the afternoon, not campfire time.

“Video games.”

Isak breathes out. “Fuck, me too. Just – TV in general.”

“TV? What are you, fifty? I was thinking more like the internet.”

“Oh yeah, that too.”

“And proper food.” Jonas sits up a little. “You know I had this friend who went to England for an exchange semester and he kept complaining about them not having proper bread. Apparently, all their bread was squishy and not crusty or something? And I kept making fun of him, ‘cause it wasn’t like he ate so much bread when he was home. I think I get it now.”

Isak doesn’t ask what happened to the friend. The answer hangs in the air over them. Instead he says, “We don’t have any squishy bread, though. We have stale bread.”

Jonas rolls his eyes. “It was a metaphor, obviously.”

“How do you look so genuinely high? Like, it’s actually concerning me a little.”

Jonas lies back down again. “I’m good at pretending.”

Isak doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t like it, the pretending. The talking himself down from a panic attack, the talking someone else down from one, the horrible fear that the worst is still not over that submerges him sometimes. That doesn’t mean that he isn’t good at it, though.

 

This is one of Isak’s nightmares:

He’s in his parents’ house, the earth is shaking underneath his feet but his father is still sitting at the table and reading the newspaper, his mother at the stove. Isak isn’t sure where he is in the room, but he knows he’s there.

His father is ignoring him, while his mother is ignoring the shaking ground. Isak stares at both of them. A tea cup drops to the ground and breaks cleanly in two. Isak’s parents don’t pay any attention to it.

Isak picks the pieces up, holds them up against the light that’s growing brighter by the second. When he lowers them again, his parents are on the floor, their eyes dead and staring into nothingness.

Isak panics. His heart feels like it’s breaking out of his chest, scratching against his rib cage. The ground starts shaking so badly that Isak has to hold onto the doorframe.

Then, the doorbell rings. Isak doesn’t know how he ends up in the hallway, just knows that when he opens the door the whole house is deafeningly rattling around him.

In the doorway, there’s a child.

Isak wakes up.

 

“It’s sad that we know how to deal with nightmares so well, isn’t it?” Isak asks from where he’s lying on his back and staring at the sky. It’s orangey, waking up quickly.

Even is lying with his head next to Isak’s feet, presumably also staring up at the sky. He’s probably searching for the perfect words to describe its colours. Isak sticks to orangey. It’s not untrue.

“It’s comforting,” Even says.

Isak snorts. “How.”

“There’s a process, there’s something that’s the same all the time. I know that when I wake up, you’ll be there.” Even says it easily, his voice never wavering and Isak rips out some grass, throwing it in the general direction of Even’s face. “Hey,” Even whines.

“You tried to make nightmares into something romantic, you deserved it.”

Even leans up on his elbows. Isak folds his hands beneath his head, lifting his eyebrows. Even rolls his eyes. “I didn’t make them into something romantic, what are you talking about?”

Isak grins. Even is easy to tease. It’s another fact that he adds to the mental spreadsheet that he keeps on all things Even does. “You always make things into something romantic,” Isak argues just for the sake of arguing.

“Yeah?” Even shuffles around so that he’s kneeling next to Isak.

“Yeah.”

Without warning Even lets himself fall on top of Isak, catching himself too late. Isak’s breath is knocked out of him, his hands scrambling out from his head and flailing.

“What the hell,” he gasps, once Even is lying on his chest, heavy and solid.

“I’m sure you’re cold.”

“I’m not, what the fuck.” Isak’s hand wanders into Even’s hair of its own accord.

“Now you’re not, you’re right.” Even presses a kiss to Isak’s neck, which is the only place he can reach and then he grows even heavier as he relaxes completely.

Isak wants to say something else but he hears someone coming closer in the grass and he blindly stretches his free hand out. Kitten butts her head against his fingers, licking at them, before wandering into his line of sight. She cocks her head at them, eyes huge and ripped ear flicking back and forth.

“You’re also gonna lie on me, aren’t you?” Isak sighs. Even chuckles into his chest.

Kitten contemplates them both for a moment, before she delicately steps onto Isak’s thigh, climbing onto him on wobbly legs and curling up in the space on his stomach that isn’t already occupied by Even.

“I hate both of you,” Isak lies. Even hums a little, but doesn’t say anything.

Buried beneath Even and Kitten, Isak feels alive.

 

Isak is picking up fire wood in the forest (alone because Magnus got held up with dealing with Hope, who continues to be most annoying goat Isak has ever had the displeasure of meeting – she was definitely only cute as a kid, now she’s out there trashing Vilde’s porch apparently) when he hears a noise.

He freezes. There shouldn’t be anything dangerous in the forest, they’ve combed through it enough times to make sure, but Isak’s still on high alert. He’s listening out for careful steps to figure out if this is something that sees Isak as prey. What he hears instead are twigs breaking and leaves rustling. That’s not a predator.

Isak turns around and sees the boy. He’s alone, dressed in a shirt that falls to his knees and trousers that actually fit him. Isak guesses those are his own.

Isak wants to turn around and leave but he can’t leave a child in the woods, so he stares at the sky, waiting for some inspiration from the universe or something and when that doesn’t happen, he looks back down at the child.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

The boy doesn’t say anything. Isak supresses a sigh, ignores his aching heart and says, “I’m going back now. Follow me.”

He brushes past the boy, arms full of fire wood and only listening out for the tell-tale breaking of branches behind him to make sure that the boy is actually following him. He doesn’t turn around to check. The feeling of the boy’s eyes on his back is unsettling enough.

“Jakob,” Vilde yells once they return to the village. “Isak, thank you for bringing him back.”

“I didn’t bring him back. He followed me here.”

“He’s not a cat!” Vilde glares at Isak, while checking if the boy’s in one piece or something. He lets her, but doesn’t say anything.

Isak shrugs. He wouldn’t feel so horrible if the child were a cat. He’s perfectly fine with Kitten. He’s smart enough to not say that aloud, just carries the fire wood away, not thinking about anything in particular.

(Fact: This is a lie. This is pretend, this is make believe that Isak can’t get himself to believe for real.

Fact: This doesn’t keep him from trying.)

 

Even is very good at make believe. Case in point, he’s standing in front of their porch, his hands on his hips and when Isak walks up to him, he says, “You know, the only thing missing for this to be a perfect house is a white picket fence. Then, it’d nearly be like a picture-perfect place.”

Isak doesn’t point out that the cabin is tiny, has no running water, no proper curtains, no electricity and barely fits the two of them. It’s not as if Even doesn’t know. “I used to think that there was a universe out there that would have that,” is what tumbles out of his mouth instead. For a moment, Isak is surprised. He hadn’t meant to say that.

Even turns from the cabin to Isak. “A universe where we have a white picket fence and fancy jobs and a dog or Kitten and 2.5 chil- and an SUV?”

Isak doesn’t point out Even’s obvious swerve. “Yeah.”

“You don’t believe that anymore?”

“No,” he says. “This is all we’ve got.”

Even watches him and Isak rolls his shoulders, feeling strangely exposed; anger threatening to climb up his back again and choke him. Then, Even smiles at him and says, “Come on, we need to get Kitten, she’s been terrorising Lady and Hope.”

“Hope deserves it,” Isak mutters, but follows Even to Vilde’s cabin. The anger slinks back, just out of sight.

“They’re all tiny babies and shouldn’t fight,” Even corrects.

“Kitten is a better animal than Hope!”

“And to think you didn’t like her at first.” Even grins. Isak grins back.

 

Isak could find the way to the city in his sleep. They don’t stray off course, they talk minimally because the city always wakes up old memories that they’d rather keep locked somewhere else, but maybe Even is right that some things are comforting because they’re always the same. There’s a certain safety in having something of a routine.

Jonas is walking next to Isak, Eva and Sana are in the front and Isak has taken great care to leave Kitten behind with Even. She sometimes thinks she should be allowed to leave their village and while she could technically always do that, she never tries very hard. Their runaway cat has already run away once, Isak supposes. No reason to do it again.

Today, they’re bartering again and Isak goes with Sana to meet Dr Skrulle. It’s a name that no longer fits her properly – that never fit her properly -, and Isak wonders what name she goes by around the people she spends her life with.

Sana is talking about an exchange of goods when Dr Skrulle ignores her and says, “I heard you’ve got a child now.”

Isak tenses, lets Sana do the talking. She does. “We have.”

Dr Skrulle nods. “It’s a shame,” she says. “That he has to grow up here. Well, what can you do.”

Suddenly, Isak’s working hypothesis flashes up in his brain: _You can’t bear to look at the boy because you see all the things he won’t have._

Isak breathes in deeply and holds his breath. Around him, Sana is still talking with Dr Skrulle, both of them continuing as if nothing had happened. And it hasn’t, Isak reminds himself. Just because his insides are lined with coldness and fear doesn’t mean that anyone else is affected.

He shakes his head forcefully. This is stupid.

He breathes out silently.

 

“Truth or lie: I don’t like raisins,” Isak says as he is watching Even bake. Noora trusts him to bake without her watchful eye. It’s a big thing.

Even looks up from his dough. “How could I even know that? I haven’t seen a raisin in forever.”

“Truth or lie,” Isak just repeats, delighting in the frown on Even’s face. 

Even sighs exaggeratedly. “Fine, truth.”

“You know me so well,” Isak grins. “Collect your prize.”

“Mhm, I think I could do better for a prize.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that you’re such a dick. I should have named you Tall, Tragic Dick.”

“Doesn’t have the same ring to it. Also, that evokes some horrible pictures in my mind and honestly –“ Even trails off, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh god, just come here and shut up.” Isak reaches out a hand and tugs Even close.

Sometimes, life is easy and light. This is one of those times. Isak smiles into their kiss.

 

Isak is talking about school with Even because they’re trying to kill time while they wait for the campfire to start and somehow they’ve ended up with this topic.

“You went to Nissen? How did I never know this?” Even asks.

Isak shrugs, poking one of the logs that’s slowly catching fire with a stick. “It’s not as if it matters anymore.”

“I nearly went there, you know? My parents wanted to move to a bigger city and they had me look at schools.”

Isak drops the stick. He looks at Even, whose eyebrows are drawn together tightly, his smile brittle and not reaching his eyes. Isak doesn’t know what to say, so he reaches out to touch Even’s cheek. It’s a useless gesture probably, small and insignificant, but Even leans his head against him, closing his eyes for a moment. “I wish I’d known you then,” he whispers, blinking his eyes open again.

Isak’s heart rattles in his chest, a painful stutter before picking up its pace again. Isak doesn’t wish that. He doesn’t want to have known Even sooner, the idea alone makes everything pull tight inside of him.

These are the facts: There are only two possible ways it could have gone if he’d known Even before.

Way one: Even would have died along with nearly all of the people Isak ever knew and loved. Isak would have either watched him die, unable to stop it because when the worst hit, there was nothing else to do but watch (scream, maybe, but that came after), or he would have found him somewhere dead.

This is the more favourable outcome. Maybe. It feels horrible just thinking it.

Way two: Even could have survived. He would have survived and known Isak and gone with him when Isak tried his best to not die, too. When Isak did everything in his might to survive out of sheer stubbornness and terror and grief that settled over him like a cloak of perpetual darkness. Even would have watched as Isak raided homes of people not even dead for two days, as he picked up things he needed with no regard for who they belonged to; watched as Isak felt like a hunted animal, scared and always prowling.

Even would have watched and Even would have been kind and he would have tried to talk to Isak, but he would have eventually realised that there was a month of Isak’s life that was spent being someone not quite human anymore, and Even would have left.

The idea that Even would have still been alive, still been here in this universe, that Isak would have known but lost him hurts even in the abstract.

No. Isak doesn’t want Even to have known him before.

He cups his other hand over Even’s cheek, too, wishing desperately he could give Even what he wants. He settles on the next best thing he knows.

“I’m glad I know you now.”

Even leans his forehead against Isak’s, clasping his hands over Isak’s and just breathes against him. _I’m sorry_ , Isak wants to say. _Neither of us deserves this. I’m sorry._

He keeps silent, holds Even tightly and hopes he hears him anyway.

 

The child is there when the campfire properly starts, wedged in-between Eva and Vilde. Isak ignores that whole side and talks to Mahdi and Sana. He can feel Even lean further and further away from him and he doesn’t have to look to know that Even is entertaining the boy. At some point, Even’s hand brushes Isak’s back, alerting him to the fact that Even is getting up. Presumably to sit closer to the little boy. Isak doesn’t check if his suspicion is correct.

His concentration must be slipping because the next thing Isak hears is Sana saying, “He’s good with him.”

Isak risks a glance to his side, where Even is telling some story or other to the child. For once, the boy looks like he’s actually semi-alive, rather than just fixing everyone with an empty stare. Or maybe he just looks at Isak like that.

The thing is, though, that Even really is good with him. He’s moving his hands in big gestures, his face lighting up and dimming depending on what he is telling, over the top and a little fantastical. The boy seems transfixed by him.

Isak would like to say that he isn’t good with children, but that’s a theory based on nothing. He hasn’t been around many children, can count the number of babies he’s held on one hand and only distantly remembers that he had a far-removed cousin who had a child a couple years ago. He met the baby once, he thinks. Not that it matters anymore – they lived in another city, one that was only reachable by car and even if they were alive it would take Isak weeks to get to them.

Isak focuses his gaze on the boy again, who is looking right back at him this time. Isak is too slow to turn away. He holds the boy’s gaze, then, because he might be a coward but he’s good at pretending that he isn’t. The boy points his finger at him, interrupting whatever Even’s saying and making Even turn around to face Isak, too.

He’s smiling widely. It takes Isak a second to respond but then a small smile is tugging his lips up as well. The boy seems startled.

Right. Isak doesn’t think he ever smiled at him and while that smile was more for Even than for the boy, it still must have reached them both. Isak faces away again. That’s enough for today.

(Fact: There’s something building inside of Isak and he can’t seem to quell it.)

 

Isak dreams.

Isak is walking through his own house, except it doesn’t look the way it should. There are no pictures of him on the shelves, there are just pictures of a boy with curly brown hair, grinning and showing off his missing two front teeth. Isak tries to remember if he had brown hair when he was younger.

The pictures continue, showing the boy growing older. Isak brushes over them with his hand (only knows the feeling, though, he can’t see his hand, never has a body when he’s here) and ends up in front of the last picture. It shows a teenager, lanky and surly-looking.

“I’m home,” someone calls and Isak spins around.

The boy from the last picture is standing in front of him. “Were you in school?” Isak asks. He feels like he should know him.

The boy laughs at him. It sounds cruel. “What’s a school?”

Isak frowns. “You go there to learn stuff.” He blinks. This is a stupid conversation. Obviously, the boy is just pulling a trick on him.

The boy just rolls his eyes. It looks a little like Isak imagines it looks when he does it. “There are no schools here, just look outside.”

Suddenly, there’s a window in front of Isak and when he pulls back the curtains, the world outside is burning. Flames licking at their house.

“How old are you?” he asks the boy without looking back at him.

“All grown up,” he answers.

Isak wakes with the feeling of fire on his skin.

 

It’s two days later, after another nightmare that had Isak batting at the covers, desperately trying to find some light in their cabin, until Even got up and ripped open their brand-new curtains that really are just glorified blankets to let in the moonlight, that Isak decides he can’t keep avoiding the little boy.

It’s obvious that he won’t leave the village in the near future (where would he go?) and Isak won’t be made a stranger in his own home. And, oh, isn’t it strange to think of here as home, as something permanent, as something safe. Isak files that thought away for another time and turns back to the problem at hand: the little boy.

He watches the way he trails after whoever is in charge of him for the day. He watches the way he rarely dawdles, how he always does whatever someone tells him, keeps close to Vilde and lets her hold his hand when they walk somewhere. How Noora lets him run around without holding his hand, how Mahdi just sits next to him, both of them looking at something in the grass. How the boy keeps silent most of the time. When he does speak, it’s in a voice so quiet, Isak can only see him move his mouth from the safe distance that he maintains from him.

Isak’s heart still doubles its pace when he sees him, but it gets easier to ignore. He builds himself a reality in which the boy will always stay a tiny five-year-old and pushes all other thoughts far away.

“You’re weird around him,” Jonas says once when they’re sitting on his porch.

Isak says nothing. What is there to say about the truth?

 

“Do you ever get homesick?” Even asks. They’re in the grass next to their porch, stretched out and Even’s legs are in the sunlight. Isak puts a hand on one of his knees, drawing aimless circles there. Even’s knee twitches and Isak smiles. “Stop that,” Even says, shaking his hand off. Isak just flattens his hand, putting his palm on Even’s knee and keeping still there.

“Homesick?” he repeats then. “There is nothing to be homesick for.”

Their world went up in flames and Isak remembers it all too well (sometimes his dreams are memories; those are the worst).

Even is quiet for a while. That’s fine with Isak. When he does start talking again, Isak has moved to lie with his head in Even’s lap. “You know, how old people say – well, said – that in the past everything was better? How the youth from today doesn’t know how good they have it. That they don’t show any respect for the past anymore or for old traditions or something. And then young people would say that, actually, old people just romanticise the past. We might be the first generation that can truly say that we had it better before.”

Isak swallows. Something inside of him stings, so he looks up. There’s a tiny mole below Even’s ear lobe that he can see from his place. He doesn’t know how he never noticed it before but he quietly files that information away.

“So, you’re nostalgic for the past,” is what he finally says.

“Nostalgic might be a better word than homesick.”

“It’s not just better, it’s the right word.”

Even sighs. Long and hard. Isak is hit with a breath of cold air. He grins up at Even.

“I’m trying to have an important conversation here,” Even complains half-heartedly.

“You chose the wrong conversation partner then.”

“You know, you could have said that something that’s better now than before is that I have you.” Even waggles his eyebrows, but there’s something serious in his face.

Isak sneaks up an arm, laying his hand on Even’s chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath his palm. “Sure,” he agrees easily, “but you know that already. Plus, I thought this was a documentary, not a rom-com. Stick to one genre and all that.”

Even’s eyes widen and Isak isn’t sure why but suddenly Even leans down to kiss him. It’s an uncomfortable angle for both of them but Isak doesn’t mind it. There’s only so much he knows about film that he can make Even’s metaphor or whatever it is work.

(Fact: A documentary might be the only movie genre that makes sense for their life. Non-fiction seems to fit it.)

 

Isak comes back from the city, expecting to find Even on their porch, Kitten in his lap, but what he finds instead makes him nearly drop his bag.

Even is sitting on the porch, the little boy in his lap, his legs too short to dangle properly from Even’s side, instead just sticking up weirdly. His hands are curled tightly in Even’s shirt and he’s looking up at him, listening to something he’s saying.

Isak squares his shoulders and comes closer. He’s done enough watching. It’s time for some field work. “Hi,” he greets once he’s only a couple of metres away.

Even looks up at him, smiling carefully. He’s so stupid. Isak said he didn’t need to tiptoe around the child just because Isak can’t deal with his own issues.

“Hi,” Even greets back. The boy turns his head slowly, watching him, his mouth slightly open.

Isak takes a deep breath and when he lets it out again, he says, “Hi, Jakob. I’m Isak.”

Jakob stares at him. Then, he waves one of his small hands.

Isak grips the strip of his bag tighter with one hand and waves back with his other.

Jakob smiles.

 

“Isak, now that you’re no longer being horrible, you can also take turns looking after Jakob,” Vilde tells him two days later.

Isak gapes at her. “I wasn’t being horrible?”

Vilde waves his objection away. “Of course you were. But it doesn’t matter, I need you to look after him today. I haven’t been to the city in ages and you literally just went.”

“What am I, your personal kindergarten teacher?” Isak crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“There are no kindergartens anymore, that’s the whole problem,” Vilde says, very quietly and very sharply.

Isak looks at her. “Fine.”

 

It turns out that Jakob still doesn’t talk to Isak. Which is great and not weird at all. Isak contemplates telling Vilde that Jakob just entertained himself but he doubts Vilde would buy it. They’re sitting behind Isak’s cabin, Jakob absentmindedly ripping out grass.

Then Isak spots his possible saviour. He gets up, squatting down close to the wall of the cabin and holds his hand out for Kitten, who is licking one of her paws very carefully. She eyes him distrustfully because of course now is when she decides that maybe she doesn’t like Isak after all. She’s such a horrible cat, Isak loves her way too much.

“You’re suffering with me,” he whispers to her, when he picks her up and holds her in his arms.

He carries her back to where Jakob is sitting, one hand still holding a few blades of grass, but his eyes tracking Isak. “Have you met Kitten yet?” Isak asks him.

Jakob shakes his head. That’s a surprise. Isak would have thought that Even would have introduced Jakob and Kitten immediately. Maybe Even was afraid Kitten would scratch Jakob. She still doesn’t like most of the people living here. Again, Isak is aware that she is the worst cat (which she is definitely not when Magnus says that because she bit him, then she is a saint and angel always).

Whatever, Jakob will survive a little scratch (he’s survived the apocalypse, he’ll grow up in this world, he should get used to – enough, Isak tells himself).

Isak sits down opposite of Jakob, holding a struggling Kitten for a moment longer, before setting her down. She shakes herself, looking back at Isak like he betrayed her. He shrugs. She will also survive it.

They’ve all been through worse.

“You can stretch out your hand,” Isak tells Jakob. “She just needs to get to know you.”

After hesitating a little, Jakob does so and Kitten, who has gone back to cleaning herself, perks up. She walks towards him, long legs suspended in the air for longer than necessary before finally getting close to Jakob’s fingers. She opens her mouth and Isak nearly yanks her away, but then she just licks at Jakob’s finger.

And Jakob giggles.

It’s such a childish sound that escapes him that he seems surprised by himself.

(Fact: Something inside of Isak is breaking and breaking, but he keeps a tight lid on it. He can do this.)

 

Once Eva has come to take Jakob with her, Isak stays in the grass waiting for Even to find him. When he does, he remains standing over Isak for a moment. Like this, he looks like a giant.

Then, he plops down, reaches out a hand and it comes back with Kitten in it. She wriggles her way out of his hold just to jump onto his shoulder, nearly falling down. Even lifts her the rest of the way up, only wincing a little when she puts her claws in his shoulder. Isak smiles at both of them.

“How did it go with Jakob?” Even asks.

Isak shrugs, the grass tickling his neck. Once upon a time, he would have maybe worried about grass stains on his clothes because it would have meant his mother sighing loudly. Later, it would have meant figuring out how to get rid of them on his own.

Maybe this is what Even meant when he talked of homesickness: Having boring routines for laundry, getting the last portion of chips in the school cafeteria, missing a movie in the cinemas, saving up for a new laptop, having a dinner that only consists of a packet of Doritos. Homesickness for the concept of how life was before.

He doesn’t worry about any of that anymore. There are a lot of other things he worries about instead.

“When I look at Jakob, I only see everything that he won’t get,” Isak says, speaking to the sky above him.

Even’s hand comes to rest on his stomach.

“I look at him and I think that he won’t go to school because there are no schools anymore. He will never know what it’s like to bullshit your way through an essay or how to make friends in school or - he won’t know what the internet is – what it was -, he’ll forget that there was a world before. That there was something there before it got wiped out.” Isak’s eyes are burning. This, too, feels like homesickness. Like something climbing up inside of him, settling in behind his eyelids and forcing him to take calculated breaths. “There is an entire universe of things he’ll never know because he got unlucky and ended up in this one.”

Once upon a time, Isak believed in the multiverse theory to imagine how he could be strong and brave in another world. How somewhere out there, he was doing the right thing when he was unsure of everything in his own universe. It spurred him into action then, to do something because if some Isak out there could do it then he should also be able to. (It might have been pretend, but it was grounded in facts, in science, in something tangible that Isak could read up on. All the books about the multiverse theory are gone, buried beneath the rubble of libraries.)

The only thing he can think about now is blinding anger. Somewhere out there, there is an Isak who is happily lying in a bed, in a flat, in a fucking world that isn’t intent on killing everyone in it. Somewhere out there, that Isak is complaining about school and worrying about what to study, but that still seems like ages away, because, God, he’s only eighteen, the only thing he wants to do right now is kiss his boyfriend and drink some beer. That Isak can go to bed at night without waking up from a nightmare, that Isak will close his eyes and only see darkness, not the faces of people dying. And Isak, who is stuck here, he just – he just _wants_. He wants to be him or to at least visit that universe, grab that Isak by the shoulders and shake him. Scream at him to fucking appreciate his life.

“It’s not fair,” Isak chokes out. “It’s not fair that we’re stuck here and that everything’s gone. Everything’s gone, Even. And I hate it, I hate it so much, but then I think, at least I know what everything was like before. At least, I know that there _was_ a before. There was a world out there and it existed and then it burned to the ground. He won’t remember that in a few years. This is all he’ll ever know. He’ll grow up in a wasteland.”  

Isak struggles for air, until Even’s hand presses into his stomach a little more insistently. Isak breathes in deeply, until he can feel his stomach expanding and lifting Even’s hand slightly. It helps to ground him a tiny bit more. The sky above him is blurry.

“It’s easier that way, though,” Even says slowly. “Maybe he won’t miss it so much then.”

Isak closes his eyes tightly. “But _I_ miss it. I miss it, Even.”

Even takes his hand away and for a second, Isak fears that he’s scared Even off somehow, that Even is getting up and leaving, but then Even lies down next to him, crowding close and pulling him tightly against him. “Yeah,” he whispers into Isak’s hair, “I miss it, too.”

Kitten meows close by, probably annoyed that she isn’t getting any attention anymore, and helpless laughter makes its way out of Isak’s mouth. He hides it together with the tears on his cheek in Even’s neck. They’re a mess.

(Fact: It won’t get better than that.

Fact: Isak wants it to get better than that.)

 

Isak wakes with a start, thinking a nightmare ripped him from his sleep, but someone’s pounding on their door, yelling his name and then Even’s. He’s up in a second, throwing open the door. Vilde is standing in front of it, looking exhausted and helpless. Isak can’t breathe suddenly. Horrible scenarios tumble over each other in his mind, one worse than the other (Jonas, is Jonas okay? Eva? Did someone get hurt? Did someone di-).

“Isak, god, he won’t stop screaming. He’s screaming and crying and none of us know what to do. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Vilde is nearly sobbing. Behind Isak, Even is getting up.

“Who?” Isak asks. He knows the answer before Vilde says anything, only knows of one person in this village who is too small to cry silently yet, to go running when the thoughts become too loud or to let someone simply hold them. Something inside of him becomes strangely calm.

“Jakob,” Vilde says, and Isak follows her out the door.

 

There’s a small group of people huddled in front of the open door of Vilde’s cabin. Isak’s eyes flit over them: Eva hugging herself, Jonas standing there and looking into the cabin every few seconds, Mahdi clapping a hand on Magnus’ shoulder, who’s staring straight ahead with wide eyes, Noora hovering in the doorway.

Isak pushes past them, stepping into the cabin where Jakob is standing, wailing. His small hands are clenched into fists, he’s wearing a sleep shirt that obviously belonged to someone way taller than him before and his whole face is red from screaming.

Isak looks around, catching Even’s gaze, who cocks his head. _Are you sure_ , he seems to ask.

There is a screaming, angry child in the middle of the cabin, a child who so far hasn’t said a lot or cried a lot or done a lot of anything really. Isak nods. He’s sure. This might be the only thing he knows how to deal with.

He watches as Even ushers the others out, wraps an arm around Vilde’s shaking shoulders and closes the cabin door behind him.

Then it’s just Isak and Jakob.

For a split second, the screaming stops as Jakob realises that his audience has dwindled and Isak sits down with his back to the wall, tugging his knees to his chest.

The screaming starts again as he hits the ground. It’s ear-piercing, high and shrill. Sometimes, it stops when Jakob needs to gasp for air, when he presses a fist against his eye, but ultimately the tears and the screaming carry on.

He’s angry, stomping his feet on the ground and tugging at his shirt as if he wanted to rip it. Isak just so manages not to smile sadly. Anger is an emotion he knows too well. He’s grown enough to know how to deal with it, how to put into his back pocket and only take it out when it’s smaller and more manageable again. How to breathe through it until it becomes a gust of wind in front of him. How to talk about it with a trembling voice. How to cuddle up to Even and breathe him in until the worst has passed.

Jakob, though, seems completely at a loss, overwhelmed and helpless. Isak looks around the room, finding a small box that is carelessly lying on the ground. It looks sturdy. He picks it up and throws it towards Jakob.

He is stunned into silence. “You’re not going to be able to rip your shirt, trust me,” Isak tells him. “You can throw that. It’ll make a lot of noise when it’ll hit the wall.”

Jakob stares at him, tears still running down his cheeks. He looks like a normal child for the first time, crying when it’s sad, when it’s hurt, when it’s angry.

Isak shuffles to the corner of the cabin, making space for Jakob to throw the box at the wall. Which he does, but it is too slow to ricochet off the wall back in front of Jakob’s feet again. So, Isak picks it up, rolls it over to Jakob.

They develop a routine. Jakob screams and sobs, throwing the box, Isak giving it back to him. There’s a dull sound whenever the box hits the wall, getting drowned in the noise that Jakob makes. Isak just sits with his arms around his knees and watches him.

Then the screams suddenly stop and Jakob lets the box be, just crying now. He opens his mouth a few times, nothing coming out, until he finally manages, “I want my Mommy.”

Isak’s heart lurches in his chest. He should have seen this coming. “I’m sorry,” he tells Jakob. It’s inadequate and Isak wants to say something else, but all he can come up with are lies. He’s not going to tell a child that his mother will return when that is highly impossible.

“Please,” Jakob sobs again. He’s trembling on his feet now, exhaustion catching up to him and Isak stretches out his legs.

These are the facts: There’s a child in front of him, who’s tired and sad and alone and Isak doesn’t want it to grow up here, he wants it to have everything, not just this, but he can’t do magic, he can’t turn back time, he can’t spin a story out of this and then give them all a happy ending, so this will have to be enough.

“Do you want to come here?” he asks, opening his arms and staying exactly where it is. He doesn’t think, he’d want to be crowded if he was crying and screaming and feeling utterly helpless.

Jakob eyes him for a short time, before stumbling over to him. He nearly falls in his haste to get to Isak, but Isak reaches out his hands, catches him and pulls him into his lap. Jakob crumples, curling himself against Isak, still sobbing. Isak hugs him closer, drawing circles on his back and beginning to talk.

He tells Jakob of the village. Of how when Isak first found it, he thought he was dreaming again, of how he saw Jonas walk out of one of the cabins that was only half-habitable then, and really, really thought he was hallucinating because Jonas was his best friend at school but when the worst happened, Isak lost him somewhere in the chaos and only found him a month later. How there were suddenly people again and how they fixed up the cabins. How Noora baked bread and Vilde made ridiculous schedules of what they should do when and Sana humoured her and Linn sat outside the cabins and Mahdi sometimes kept her company and Magnus told bad jokes until someone smiled again. How Isak walked into the forest and found Even.

He talks of the animals of how they found a goat called Lady and a cat called Kitten and how Lady had a baby that got the horrible name Hope, and if Jakob had maybe met Hope because if he did, he will surely understand that Hope is an extremely annoying animal that Isak still likes, but that’s a secret and he really shouldn’t tell anyone that.

When Isak’s voice is hoarse, Jakob’s sobbing has turned into the occasional sniffle. “Wanna go to bed?” Isak asks him quietly.

Jakob just holds onto Isak tighter. Isak smiles despite himself, exhausted and sucked dry. “Okay,” he says. “You don’t have to let go.”

 

Isak ends up carrying Jakob through the village to his own cabin. Even is sitting on the porch, waiting for him.

“Hi,” Even says quietly. “Is he asleep?”

At this, Jakob curls one hand more tightly into Isak’s shirt. Isak shakes his head. “No, but he’s nearly there.”

Even nods, getting up and stretching out his legs. “Bed then?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long night.”

Jakob sleeps between the two of them, his knees pressing into Isak’s side, his breath brushing against Isak’s shoulder. Isak turns to find Even’s eyes in the dark. They’re wide open.

“How’s Vilde?” he asks, once Jakob’s breathing has evened out.

“As well as she can be. She’s staying with Eva for the night. She’s just tired. Apparently, Jakob’s been crying for hours.” They both look down at him. He looks peaceful now. If it were less dark, though, Isak would still be able to make out his red-rimmed eyes.

“He tired himself out.”

“Why did he cry?” Even asks. Isak watches as he brushes Jakob’s sweaty curls out his face. Something inside of Isak’s pulls tight at that.

“He missed his mother.”

“Oh. He’s part of the club then.” Isak looks up sharply. Even’s voice tries too hard to be light and when Isak sees the way his mouth is downturned, he reaches over Jakob and puts a hand on Even’s arm.

“I told him of this village,” Isak says because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah? Did you tell him how you found me?” Even’s smile is coming back in increments. Isak squeezes his arm.

“Of course.”

“It makes for a good story, I guess.”

Isak frowns. “It’s not a story. It’s what happened.”

Even is regarding him strangely but Isak is too tired to figure it out. His eyelids are drooping and if he thinks about this night for too long it might get added to his nightmares so he closes his eyes and says, “Good night.”

“Night, Isak. Sleep well,” is Even’s answer, so quiet that his voice is barely more than a rumble. Isak burrows deeper into the mattress.

 

Isak has a ghost. He’s tiny, only reaches up to his waist, mostly quiet and follows Isak around like a lost puppy. Isak doesn’t even particularly like dogs.

“Since when are you good with children?” Jonas asks, raising his eyebrows in Jakob’s direction, who’s playing with a mini toy car that Vilde found in the depths of some house.

“I’m not,” Isak just says. Jakob looks up from his car when he hears Isak talking, frowning at him. Isak shoots him a small smile and Jakob seems to be comforted by that, turning back to his car.

“Uhm, that’s just lying in the face of the evidence.”

Isak sighs. Leave it to Jonas to beat him with his own logic.

 

“Does it bother you?” Even asks one evening, a few days later when Jakob is staying with Vide. It’s the first night he isn’t sleeping in Even and Isak’s bed since he woke up the whole village with his screaming. Isak has missed not having to share the bed.

“What?” he asks. He’s lazily pressing small kisses to Even’s collarbones, just because he can.

“That Jakob keeps following you around.”

Isak stops, staring hard at a spot on Even’s shoulder and says, “No. I mean, I’m happy that he’s with Vilde right now, I don’t want a child in our bed every night. It’s cramped enough as it is, but yeah, no, I don’t mind it.”

Even stays quiet for a bit, so Isak goes back to committing every single part of Even to his memory. No one says that he has to do that with his eyes, which is why he keeps leaving kisses on his skin.

“So you don’t only see the things he won’t have when you look at him anymore?”

Isak leans his forehead against Even’s shoulder. “I do.”

“But what changed then?”

Isak isn’t sure why this is such a big deal to Even. He asks exactly that.

At that, Even moves one hand to cup Isak’s jaw and tugs him upwards so that Isak can look into Even’s eyes. “Because you looked miserable when you caught sight of him and now he’s always around you and I don’t want you to be miserable. Not more miserable,” Even corrects himself.

Isak turns that thought over in his head. “So it’s not just because you want to figure out my motivation, so that it makes more sense in your movie?” As soon as he’s said it, he wants to take it back because Even’s face makes a complicated motion that looks as if it hurts. Isak instantly reaches out to smooth his hand over Even’s cheek, trying to leech out the pain that he must have caused, though he doesn’t know what he did.

“Isak, you’re not just a character in my movie, you know that, right?”

Isak frowns. “Aren’t we all?” Isak doesn’t pretend to understand how exactly Even’s mind frames all of this and he doesn’t believe any of it himself (there is no happy ending in sight, this is not a story, not even a beautifully shot film by Even), but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t try. It’s Even after all and even if Isak is just one of the many characters in the film, he wants Even to know that if he believes in this, then it’s alright.

Even presses his fingers more tightly into Isak’s cheeks, digging his thumbs into the space next to his lips. It’s a little uncomfortable, but Isak doesn’t mind; it’s a reminder that Even is still here, despite whatever Isak just said that caused him pain. “Yes, everyone is a character, but Isak, you must know that you’re not just any character. You’re the protagonist of the story.”

Isak blinks once. “Oh.” He gathers enough spit in his mouth to say something else. “But what about you?”

“I’m the narrator or the director. But – this is a movie about you most of all. The camera never leaves you. How could it?”

Even doesn’t elaborate, but Isak doesn’t ask. He thinks he wouldn’t understand in any case; it’s enough to hear the awe in Even’s tone.

“Oh,” Isak says again.

“Can I ask you something?”

Isak just nods. His mind is still reeling from what Even just said.

“When you told Jakob how you met me, you said that it wasn’t a story. That it was what really happened.”

“Yeah. It was. It was the facts.”

“Okay, but can’t it be both? A story and the facts?”

Isak doesn’t understand. “No? It wasn’t a fairy tale with a happy ending or something. I just reported what had happened.”

Even shrugs and it jostles Isak on top of him. Isak shifts a little to distribute his weight more evenly. “But a story doesn’t have to have a happy ending. It can be all facts, just better presented or easier to understand. The human brain is better at remembering stories than at facts that are removed from all context.”

“So?” Isak’s heart is beating too fast.

“I’m just saying that – you can look at Jakob now, yeah? And you interact with him and it doesn’t make you sadder than usual, does it?”

“We went over this already, yes.”

“So you can look at the facts – that he won’t have the same life that we did – and what, ignore them?”

Isak sits up a little. He’s fairly sure that his elbows are painfully digging into Even’s chest, but he deserves it for making Isak have this ridiculous conversation. His heart is racing. “I’m not ignoring them! Do you think I suddenly forgot what he went through or what he lost? That didn’t all magically disappear just because he said that he missed his mother. You yourself pointed out that, well, who doesn’t here. But – but I don’t know. He’s a child, he’s – he doesn’t deserve this and I don’t know, okay, maybe it’ll get better later. Maybe, we’ll figure something out.” Hope colours his sentence, banishes all thoughts of facts and breaks out of his mouth. Isak wants to swallow it back down.

(Isak wants to paint it on the walls.)

Even smiles at him, sadly, but it’s a smile. “We’ll figure something out.”

Isak wants to believe that. He wants to believe that it will work, but based on what? “How? How can you be so sure of that? Hope isn’t based on facts.”

Isak’s chest feels like it’s caving in, breaking under the weight of that admission. Hope is illogical and horrible and Isak is setting himself up to be disappointed, but, God, he wants to believe in hope. He wants to believe that things will turn around at some point in the future, wants to believe in that not just when he’s trying to cheer someone in the village up, when he’s lending Even some of his pretend conviction that things will be better in the future. He wants to wake up after a nightmare and have hope sleeping somewhere in the nook of his heart, so that he can gently wake it and hold it close to himself. He wants hope instead of all that anger, that fear, that hopelessness that seems to have enveloped him when the world ended.

“No, it’s not, but in this case hope is supported by facts. Look at the village,” Even says.

Isak closes his eyes, can’t bear to look at Even right now, but he thinks of the village. When he arrived the cabins were broken, but they fixed them up, they found a stream, they found stuff to eat, they set up a barter system with the people in the city, they managed to get an oven to work again, they’re raising animals, hell, they’re all raising a kid.

Isak has made a mistake, he’s forgotten the first thing about any research: Be aware of your blind spots. He takes a deep breath.

“I think I’ve been working without all the facts,” he gets out.

“That’s okay. Theories need to be re-evaluated during the research process,” Even says easily.

Isak opens his eyes. “How do you know that? You’re a film nerd, not a scientist.”

“My physics teacher in school was quite good. I understood nothing but I remember her lesson about methodology.”

Isak swallows, letting his eyes travel over Even’s face. It looks relaxed, soft. “It will take us ages until Jakob will have anything resembling a normal life, though.”

“Yeah. But it will happen. At some point.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s enough,” Even says.

“Yeah.” Isak puts his head on Even’s shoulder, suddenly bone-tired. “For now,” he adds quietly.

“Dream big,” Even smiles.

“This is not your movie right now,” Isak grumbles half-heartedly.

“I know, this is your research proposal.”

Isak falls asleep with his head heavy on Even’s shoulder and an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Hope is sitting precariously on the lowest rib on his left ribcage. Isak is careful not to look at it for too long.

 

Jakob is sitting between Isak’s legs, petting Kitten, while Even asks, “Are you still planning on writing an encyclopaedia once all this is over?”

Isak doesn’t correct him that all this will never truly be over. He doubts he will ever not wake up from nightmares at least once a week (or more often). He knows what Even means. Today, is a good day. The sun is partially hidden, so for once Even isn’t sitting in the shade but in the middle of the grass next to Isak.

“I changed my mind on that one,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna write an encyclopaedia on someone else first.”

“Someone?”

Isak smiles. “Yes.” He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he looks at Jakob, who’s giggling at something Kitten is doing.

“Truth or lie,” Even starts. Isak nods to get him to continue, still watching Jakob who’s taken to doing something that looks like he’s tickling Kitten. Kitten in turn is humouring him by only batting at him with withdrawn claws. “You’re gonna write an encyclopaedia on me.” He’s laughing as he says it, crinkles appearing around his eyes and Isak wishes he’d have a camera to immortalise this moment forever.

He doesn’t, so he just says, “Truth.”

Even laughs louder and Isak smiles happily. At some point, he will make studying Even a science, but he might not write an encyclopaedia on him. That might be a touch too much, but it makes Even laugh. It’s still the truth if Isak believes that someone should write one about Even, so he doesn’t feel bad about this one.

Suddenly, Jakob says, “Look.”

Isak turns to him, startled by his speech. It still doesn’t happen often, though he obviously knows how to speak. He follows Jakob’s outstretched hand and doesn’t see anything at first, but then he realises there’s nothing to see. Instead, he feels something.

A rain drop hits his knee. Isak stares at Even, disbelieving. Another one splashes him on top of his eyebrow.

Kitten is already shaking herself as if she were drenched and not likely sprinkled.

Fact: The last time it rained was directly after the world ended.

Fact: They’ve been getting their water from streams, who’ve been small and tiny but enough to survive on. The only water left is underground.

Fact: The sky is rapidly darkening.

Isak picks up Jakob, gets up and watches Even press Kitten close to himself. “It’s raining,” Even yells and Isak laughs. It is. The sun is hidden – maybe only for a moment, maybe it’ll be back in full force in a minute and the next rain will take another age to come – but right now, there are clouds in the sky and huge rain drops falling from it.

Hypothesis: Things might be looking up.

Further research needed.


End file.
